


pictures of war, and of love

by chatona



Series: shield university [1]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Lu's couch is magic and where I write the most fic, M/M, Natasha plays matchmaker, author is a law fangirl, darcy the cat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-09
Updated: 2012-07-09
Packaged: 2017-11-09 12:28:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/455453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chatona/pseuds/chatona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coulson teaches international law at SHIELD university. Natasha is his student assistant, Clint studies photography and Tony Stark throws parties. These things are all connected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	pictures of war, and of love

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Lu for putting up with me always, and to Emma for looking this over. 
> 
> Cheesy title is cheesy. The working title for this was _in which Phil Coulson has unrealistic expectations of relationships and also issues, apparently_.

Phil reads the invitation twice (flippant tone, of course, but then that's to be expected from Tony Stark) and checks his agenda. Of course, the party has to be on the one weekend where there are no conferences, no exams anywhere near to be graded (or studied for, since Stark always invites some of the students as well-- Phil knows that Fury once told him that was inappropriate, but then Stark just does whatever the hell he wants and Fury's learnt to pick his battles. This isn't one of them) and no excuses.

He can almost hear Nick Fury's voice telling him that he needs to get out more.

Phil sighs, pencils the party into his agenda and wonders, not for the first time, why he thought it a good idea to come work for someone he's actually friends with.

* * *

He almost forgets all about it, until two weeks later, Natasha puts a file with the cases he asked her about on his desk and settles in the armchair that sits in a corner of his office, legs over the side of it. She's the best student assistant he's ever had, intelligent and efficient and more professional than most, so he lets her get away with a lot and she never abuses the privilege. He doesn't feel comfortable blurring the lines between professional and personal life, but he's come to think of her as a friend rather than his student or his assistant. 

"You're coming to the party tonight, right?" 

He takes off his glasses, tugging them in the breast pocket of his jacket. "Barring unforeseen circumstances."

She laughs. "Haven't been able to find an excuse, have you?"

Phil shrugs. She knows him too well at this point. If it weren't for the fact that he knows that socialising will be good for him and that Fury will frown at him if he doesn't go, he'd consider just making something up. Sadly, at the very least Fury would see right through him, and he has a feeling Stark would end up showing in his office and pouting, too. It's enough to give anyone a headache, so going to the party really is the lesser of two evils.

"It'll be fun." Natasha's smiling like she knows something he doesn't.

He takes the folder, but doesn't open it. It's past six pm, he's technically not supposed to be working anymore. Of course, he does his best work in the evenings, so that's never actually stopped him before. "We'll see about that."

"Are you bringing anyone?"

Phil looks up at that; it crosses a line into more personal territory than they've ever discussed and he's not sure he's comfortable with it. She's swinging her legs and studying the titles of books lined up in the shelves that cover the entirety of walls in his office (sorted by subject: public international law, international humanitarian law, international human rights, regional human rights) and looks like she's not terribly invested in his answer either way, just making idle conversation.

"No. I'm not really seeing anyone."

* * *

It isn't that Phil is against the idea of a relationship-- he's fine on his own, sure, but it'd be nice to have someone to come home to, someone to share things with. 

Then again, he spends most of his life these days between lecturing on the finer points of the law of armed conflict and researching the finer points of the law of armed conflict. It isn't exactly an exciting life and at least if his cat gets bored of his mumbling, she only twitches her tail at him. 

He's fine on his own, and the only people he has any regular contact with are either his students -- and the university may not have particularly strict rules on fraternisation, but he still draws a line there -- or his fellow professors, and while he likes some of them, he can't imagine himself with one of them. They're either as lost inside their own heads as he is, or they're Tony Stark, which Phil doesn't even want to consider. 

It isn't as though his life is incomplete or unfulfilled. He loves his work; enjoys teaching and, more than anything, research. If he sometimes gets a little lonely, well, that's hardly strange and he always feels better in the morning.

* * *

After the conversation with Natasha, he does actually pack up his things and heads home. His apartment isn't too far off campus, all earthy tones and a purring cat winding around his legs, and for a moment, he seriously considers just taking off the suit and settling on the couch rather than heading out again. He recorded the last episode of _Supernanny_ ; it's a guilty pleasure, but after hours of academia, he feels entitled to watch bad TV that makes his brain check out completely. It's relaxing. 

Instead, he changes into a fresh shirt, decides to forgo the tie and the suit jacket, and instead throws on a light coat, tops off Darcy's water and feeds her, and then he's out of the door again.

It isn't the first time Stark's throwing a party and it won't be the last. Every time Phil goes, he's torn between rolling his eyes (when will Stark learn that throwing money at people isn't what makes them like him-- except the shallow ones) and hoping that this time, he might actually have fun.

Phil isn't really the partying type.

* * *

The party's already in full swing when he gets there: loud, yet surprisingly tasteful music, drinks flowing freely and the mansion is filled with people, most of which Phil doesn't know. SHIELD university isn't particularly large, but Phil doesn't really spend much time with students from departments other than the law department, sometimes social sciences because he also teaches part of an undergraduate course in international relations, so he hardly knows anyone.

He spots Tony Stark holding court in a group of what is probably impressionable students, and Phil feels a nagging sense of disapproval spreading, but he gives Stark a nod and a smile regardless. At least Dr Banner is standing next to Stark; he might have a calming influence. 

Phil reminds himself that he is neither the Dean of the university (that's Nick, and Phil's very glad he doesn't have to deal with the bullshit Nick does) nor anyone's babysitter, and goes to get himself a drink. He's got to give it to Stark, the man has excellent taste and the wine is delicious.

He wanders through the mansion for a while, stopping to chat to Jane Foster who's doing a PhD in theoretical physics with Banner but took his course on humanitarian law "out of interest". Her work's coming along quite nicely, she tells him, and then gets distracted when a blond hunk of a man slides an arm around her and drops a kiss on top of her head. "Thor, hey," she smiles, and Phil makes his excuses.

In the end, Natasha finds him leaning against the desk in what seems to be an office usually and has been transformed into a bar for the night, a book in hand. If Stark doesn't want people reading what he has lying around, he probably should have locked at least some of the rooms, Phil thinks, but it isn't as though what he's reading is in any way private; a history of warfare in the United States by an author Phil's never heard of, which is what made him curious in the first place. The text is surprisingly good.

Natasha plucks the book out of his hands, clucks her tongue at him and closes it. "It's a party, Phil," she tells him, reprimand and amusement lacing in her voice. He should probably mind a bit more that his student assistant is bossing him around, but he's rather glad there's finally someone here he can talk to, and besides, it's Natasha. 

He takes a sip of his wine and notes with surprise that the glass is almost empty. It's also his second one. That, at least, explains why he's starting to feel a little more relaxed.

There's a guy standing half behind Natasha, not quite glowering. Dirty-blond hair, not much taller than Phil, but broad and muscular. Phil swallows dryly and looks away from his upper arms; staring at Natasha's date is inappropriate at best.

She catches his gaze, and there's that knowing look again. "Phil, this is Clint Barton. Clint, Phil Coulson, the prof I told you about. Now play nice, boys, I gotta go talk to Pepper."

Phil opens his mouth to protest, to say anything at all, really, but Natasha's already turned away, the book he was reading under one arm so he can't even go back to that. Over her shoulder, she adds with another sly smile: "You don't mind taking him off my hands, Phil, do you? Clint really needs a keeper."

Well. He hadn't expected that.

* * *

Clint shifts his weight on his feet, then gives a shrug and settles on the desk next to Phil, hips cant and legs stretched out. Their arms touch and Phil wants to move away and at the same time, he wants to lean in. He can't remember the last time someone had quite that effect on him-- sure, some of the other professors and a lot of the students are very attractive, but most of the time, Phil finds reasons not to lust over them very quickly. Maybe it's just that Clint hasn't opened his mouth and said something stupid yet. 

Except when Clint speaks, it doesn't help at all, because his voice is gravelly and slightly rough and the slight twinge of an accent is attractive as hell. "I'm sorry," he says, and sounds genuinely embarrassed. "For some reason, Tasha thinks she needs to set me up with someone."

Phil is about to reassure him that it's no problem, not at all, when the rest of that sentence catches up with him and he finds himself frowning. "You're not together?"

The surprise in his own voice makes him want to cringe, but the military has taught him the value of showing no reaction and a few years of lecturing and teaching has honed his pokerface, so he's reasonably sure it doesn't show on his face.

"Get that a lot, but no. She's my best friend. And not really my type," Clint sounds careless, easy, but there's a tightness around his eyes that make Phil think vulnerability. It shouldn't be a good look on him, on anyone, but somehow, it's still appealing. He wants to ask how Natasha isn't his type, because she's gorgeous and if Phil was at all attracted to women, he'd probably have a lot more difficulty being professional around her and-- _oh_.

"Are you saying my student assistant is playing matchmaker?" 

She always seemed professional. He might have to re-think that assessment. He can also, all too vividly, imagine Nick's amusement if this story ever reaches his ears. 

"I'm afraid so." There's something akin to a challenge in Clint's voice, _what's it to you?_ or maybe _what are you gonna do about it?_ , but Phil's always been good about not rising to challenges unless it was necessary. 

He shrugs. "Okay."

It earns him a surprised look, followed by a smile, and Phil needs a moment to tell himself that no one has any right to be this attractive and also not to get too interested. They sit in silence for a while, arms barely brushing, and it's almost comfortable. 

"I need a beer," Clint finally decides and Phil thinks, okay, that's it, he's gotten bored now because Phil can lecture for hours and he can do small talk if it's required, but he doesn't particularly like the latter. Instead of leaving, though, Clint nods to Phil's now-empty wine glass. "Get you another one of those?" 

"Yes," Phil nods, a little surprised. "Please."

When Clint comes back a minute later and hands Phil the glass back, their fingers brush and Phil finds himself smiling.

* * *

"So Tasha told me something about International Law and Armed Conflict and sometimes she talks about Geneva and The Hague and I have no idea what she's on about. What is it that you do?" Clint asks, and Phil thinks he actually sounds genuinely interested.

So he tells him.

Phil knows he's pretty much a dork when it comes down to it. He loves international law, the difficulties in combining state sovereignty with the constraining factors of law, how it's used in armed conflict to bring humanitarian concerns on the international field and teach soldiers where the limits are, that ultimate war is not only not the goal but also expressly prohibited. Usually, he manages to keep his tone even and objective and _professional_ when he's lecturing, but he's on his third glass of wine and it's late and-- he may be getting into it a bit too much, gesturing and expressive where he usually tries to maintain a calm facade. 

Clint asks some questions in between, and though it's clear that he's never studied law before and asks for clarification of concepts that Phil takes for granted ("Okay, but what does state sovereignty actually _mean_?"), it's also obvious that he's intelligent.

Though unless Phil is imagining the way Clint's eyes drop to his mouth every so often, Clint isn't really interested in international law so much as other things. He's not sure how he feels about that; part of him almost giddy with excitement and wonder, but that's a combination of his downstairs brain and the soft, yet almost queasy feeling in his stomach that has nothing to do with the alcohol. Phil's never been the type for hook-ups at parties.

He's not sure he wants to start now, no matter how attractive Clint is.

* * *

They don't talk about international law the entire time, of course.

Phil learns that Clint is twenty-seven and teaches archery at summer camps and they share stories about their students. It doesn't make much of a difference that Clint's students are all seven to fourteen year-olds while Phil's range between twenty and thirty, usually, and that the subjects couldn't be more different. Some things are universal, it seems, and by the time Clint finishes telling an anecdote about how one of the kids kept holding the bow the wrong way no matter how many times Clint corrected her stance, Phil thinks _I can't remember the last time I laughed this much_.

The thought stays with him throughout the conversation that flows surprisingly easily between them. Part of that is probably the alcohol, but Phil has a feeling they'd get along without that as well, something in Clint's sense of humour and easy sarcasm appealing to him, and he knows he's giving off all the signals, so he can't exactly blame Clint when he leans forward, mutters "Tell me I'm not reading this wrong," and presses dry lips against Phil's.

The problem is, he wants it, wants Clint, that much is obvious and he's never been very good at lying to himself, but Phil doesn't want him like this.

He doesn't want a drunk one-night stand at a party and he doesn't want kisses where everyone can see and gossip about Professor Coulson hitting it off with that guy, and he doesn't want to go home and think of this later with a mix of regret and longing and never see Clint again. He wants to get to know Clint better, see if he'll still want to kiss him after a week, a month, a year even, wants to know what Clint looks like in the morning almost as much as he wants to find out what Clint looks like without those jeans and combat boots and the t-shirt that's clinging to his arms and chest and distracting Phil more than it should. 

He doesn't want a drunk hook-up, is what it boils down to.

Heart beating wildly in his chest and lips tingling, he allows himself this for a moment, the slow slide of Clint's lips against his, before settling a hand on Clint's chest (solid under his fingertips and he _wants_ ) and pushing until Clint gets the hint and draws back.

Phil opens his eyes slowly, finds that he can't remember when he shut them, and licks his lips. Clint's are a little red, mouth opened a little and there's that hint of vulnerability again, before his face becomes impassive. "Sorry," he drawls and Phil thinks the tone is the most dishonest he's heard Clint all night, doesn't match up with his expression at all. He gets it.

"Clint," he says, softly, and lets his hand drop away from Clint's chest. "Would you like to get coffee sometime?"

It's the closest he can come to expressing that he wants this, but doesn't at the same time, not like this, and he hopes that maybe Clint understands that he's putting himself on the line almost as much as Clint did when he kissed him. Maybe more so.

Watching the smile spreading over Clint's face makes it worth it. 

"Yeah, I'd like that," Clint says, ducking his head in a way that almost looks shy, but then he's smirking and adds, voice low enough to send shivers across Phil's back that have nothing to do with the actual words: "Wouldn't want to disappoint Tasha, after all, she's scary when she has her mind set on something."

Phil knows that all too well.

* * *

They exchange numbers and their fingers brush again and it makes Phil smile. He almost wants to lean in and kiss Clint again, but at the same time his own resolve is only so strong and he knows that if he did, he wouldn't be able to stop again, and he'd definitely regret drunk sex more than he would going home alone but with the promise of meeting for coffee the next week.

He smiles all the way home.

* * *

Natasha looks at him knowingly, come Monday morning when she's dropping off the articles he'd asked her to print, but doesn't comment. Phil tries not to smile helplessly at her; he's quite sure he manages to keep it off his face.

"Natasha," he says, infusing his voice with sternness. Just because he likes Clint, just because they agreed to see each other again, doesn't mean he can let her meddle. "I know the lines blur sometimes, but please remember that you're my student assistant and no part of your job description involves my personal life?"

She smiles, perfectly calm. "Of course."

Somehow, he has the impression his words didn't have any impact at all. He'd expected nothing less, but it still needed to be said.

* * *

He meets Clint for coffee in one of his favourite places; the café is part of a chain, but it still manages to be cosy and familial despite that and despite the size of the premises it occupies. The wooden floor is old and groans under his steps, the windows are large and let the sunlight in and he understands why there's always a few students with laptops or books grouped around the larger tables. Plus, they have fantastic cheesecake.

Clint is smiling, wide and open, his hair messy and a little dishevelled and making Phil's fingers itch to reach out and-- he's not sure whether he wants to smooth it down, actually, or mess it up even more. He smiles back.

"Hey." 

Clint's eyes crinkle a little at the corners. "Hey, Phil."

Phil pays for their coffee, and for two pieces of cheesecake (one cappuccino that he's wanted to try for a while and never had an excuse to, and lemon for Clint, because he "likes the classics, what can I say?"). It could have been awkward, both of them going for their wallets, but then Clint had smirked and shrugged, bowing out more gracefully than Phil can imagine himself doing. "I got you wine at the party." 

"That was an open bar." Phil's still smiling now, carrying the tray with drinks and cake to a table in a corner, half-hidden behind a large plant. 

There's a pause. Phil has his hands wrapped around his large cup of mocha (sue him, he likes the sweet stuff) and Clint is right there, sitting across from him and just as handsome as Phil remembered him from the party. He's not sure whether to be glad that it wasn't the alcohol and his imagination drawing a prettier picture than reality, or feel hopelessly out of his league. 

"So," Clint's smile is a little crooked, lopsided. Phil finds his eyes drawn to his mouth again. He knows what Clint feels like and tasted like; the need to lean in and kiss him again hasn't lessened at all over the last three days, hitting him again now. It doesn't matter that there's a table between them or that Phil was the one who wanted -- still wants -- to take this slow, get to know Clint first. The attraction is instant and strong and it takes a moment to realise that Clint hasn't continued talking, that Clint's fallen silent and is staring at Phil with an odd look on his face, a little dazed. 

_Oh_.

He clears his throat, tearing his eyes away forcefully from Clint's lips, looking down at his coffee instead and feeling heat rise to his cheeks. 

"Sorry." Phil takes a steadying breath, knowing his expression is sheepish and doing nothing to hide it. "You were saying?" 

Clint's smiling, so Phil doesn't think he minds all that much that just looking at him is enough to distract Phil. "Just wondering how your weekend's been."

* * *

It isn't until an hour later, once they've talked about their favourite food, their parents (divorced in Phil's case, dead in Clint's, and Phil doesn't think saying "I'm sorry" cuts it, but Clint had looked away, something making his lips curl that might have been anger or sadness or embarrassment and ground out "it's okay" and Phil knows when not to push) and what they'd name their pets (which led to tales of Darcy and the trouble she gets into while Phil isn't at home, the trouble she gets into when he _is_ ), that Phil realises. 

Clint's sprawled in his chair and making a face as he tells Phil about the project he has to hand in and Phil swallows, throat suddenly dry. "You're a student."

Clint stops, frowning. "Yeah." He sounds like maybe Phil should have known all along. Still, he must read something on Phil's face, because his next words, in the same slow tone, are: "Is that a problem?" There's no challenge in the words, confusion and something wary and perhaps even worried.

It makes Phil feel like such an ass. 

"You know I'm a professor." 

"Yeah," Clint repeats, and he still doesn't look like he's getting it; looks like he doesn't understand at all what the problem is here. "You're at the law department. I study media and _photography_."

Phil shakes his head slowly, fingers tightening over his long-empty glass. "It still means I'm in a relative position of power."

Clint stares at him for a moment; then he just laughs. Phil wants to be angry at the obvious disregard for his authority, but first of all, it's a really nice laugh and he wants to hear it again, and secondly, he rather wishes they weren't in this situation. He likes Clint. He _wants_ to be convinced that it's okay. 

"With all due respect, _sir_ ," Clint all but drawls, "but I'm more scared of Natasha than of you, and she tells me we'd make a cute couple."

Phil opens his mouth to argue (they're not a couple yet, _cute?_ , he's still a professor and Clint is still a student, if Natasha is coercing him into this, that doesn't make it better at all) but Clint continues, all traces of laughter and teasing gone from his voice: "I don't really take to pressure very well, problems with authority. And we're in completely different departments, I don't think you could have an influence on my grades even if you tried."

He takes a breath, eyes never once leaving Phil's face, not even when his hand finds Phil's over the table, turning it and intertwining their fingers. Phil makes no move to stop him. There's something painfully honest in Clint's gaze now, and Phil can't deny him. "I like you, Phil. I want to give this a go, and I'm pretty sure you do, too. Don't throw it away just because you have some idea of what's appropriate and what isn't." Phil can see him swallow; knows that the smirk is forced rather than real when it comes. "Besides, there's no regulations against it, I looked it up."

Phil looks down at their hands, then back up at Clint's face. 

He wants this, wants Clint-- so much. The thought of letting it go and never seeing him again, or seeing him again around campus sometime with someone else, it almost hurts and it's ridiculous, it should be ridiculous, they hardly know one another and this is their first actual date. They might not get along at all once they get to know each other a bit better. It might not work out. 

Then again, it might.

Phil closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and nods. He almost doesn't recognise his own voice when he speaks. "Okay."

The smile on Clint's face more than makes up for Phil's doubts.

* * *

For their second date, Clint takes Phil to an art gallery in the next larger that is showing war photographs. "I thought," he says a little hesitantly, "Since you teach humanitarian law and that's war, right? I thought you might like this, and I've been meaning to see these for ages now."

The pictures are gritty and realistic and even to Phil's untrained eye, they're really good. They also make him think back to his own time in fatigues under the desert sun and if he tenses up when they're standing in front of a photograph that's been blown up to cover the entire wall, well. Clint's fingers find his and squeeze briefly, once, before letting go again, and Clint's eyes on him are worried.

"Not a good idea?" he asks, voice quiet.

Phil shakes his head, deliberately brushing his hand against Clint's again. "No, I like them. They're really good." The war turned out to be too much for him in the end, but he looks at some of those pictures again and thinks _camaraderie_ rather than _death_ and Clint is right there, next to him, and that's enough. They go through the rest of the rooms with their shoulders touching and Clint keeps up a steady stream of chatter about aperture and shutter speed and the finer points of shooting in RAW, which tells Phil very little but keeps him out of his own head.

In the end, it feels a little as though he's leaving the war behind a second time, but he feels calmer about it this time and it's in no small part due to Clint's unfailing presence at his side.

Afterwards, they have dinner in a small restaurant, legs touching under the table, and Phil tells Clint about the war, voice halting and slow, and Clint doesn't interrupt, barely even looks away from Phil to cut his food. He tells him about his decision to leave the military and do his master in international and humanitarian law because he was still interested in warfare and even more interested in how to make it a little less cruel. While he took the job Nick Fury offered him, he's also regularly teaching summer courses to military staff. Total warfare is prohibited, there's humanitarian concerns and things such as military necessity and proportionality to be addressed, and if his words can make a difference in even just one op and save a handful of civilians or enemy combatants unnecessary suffering, that's enough for Phil.

"I think I just fell a little in love with you," Clint tells him, quietly, and he doesn't look like he's joking at all. 

Phil presses his knee a little more against Clint's, and the rest of the evening they talk about movies and books and Clint's photography; things that don't make Phil's voice crack and his expression grow tight.

When they leave the restaurant, Phil feels strangely lighter, more relaxed. Maybe talking about it did him some good.

* * *

Clint stops the car in front of Phil's house, turning in his seat and brushing a hand against Phil's arm. "I'd ask if I can come up," he's smirking again, but there's something hot burning in his gaze, "but I'm pretty sure then I wouldn't let you kick me out again." 

Phil wants to tell him to come in anyway, and he wants to breathe a sigh of relief because no, they wouldn't be able to stop, he wants Clint far too much for that, and while his body is screaming an enthusiastic yes, his mind tells him to take it slow. They're not horny teenagers, to fall in and out of love quickly and in and out of lust even quicker. Phil wants this to mean something, and looking at Clint, he thinks that maybe Clint gets it, maybe he wants that, too.

It's a heady feeling. 

He leans over and Clint leans in and they're meeting in the middle, kissing over the gearshift. There's a moment of awkwardness, the angle is all wrong, but then Clint's shifting and a hand comes up to curl over Phil's neck, holding him just so, and-- _yeah_. The kiss lasts longer than at the party, lips sliding against lips and Clint is licking his way into Phil's mouth; pressure and heat and Phil's moaning into it.

Clint pushes him away, lips red and wet, panting. "Go," he commands and the roughness of his voice sends a shiver down Phil's spine, his eyes drawn to the curve of Clint's cock, visibly straining against his pants. 

Phil gets out of the car and walks the last few steps on shaky legs.

* * *

Phil takes off his tie, hanging it over the chair in his bedroom, then folds his pants and his shirt and leaves them on the chair, motions slow and deliberate, and then he picks up Darcy, presses a short kiss into her fur and drops her outside his bedroom, closing the door.

He's so hard it hurts and he hasn't done this in far too long, but he settles on the bed now, boxers down and hand on his cock, thinking of Clint's voice and his mouth against Phil's. He imagines what Clint's lips would look like, stretched around him, and he imagines the heavy weight of Clint's cock on his tongue.

When he comes, it feels a little like he's waking up.

* * *

The rest of the week passes in a blur of papers and lectures; he's trying to finish an article and his students have a deadline Thursday evening for three thousand words on a topic of their choice (so long as it's relevant for the course), but he texts Clint in the morning or Clint texts him in the afternoon, non-consequential things. A picture attached to the text message that Clint says he's proud of, or Phil letting Clint know Darcy's shredded a roll of toilet paper again.

Clint texts back: "I'd love to take a picture of that."

Phil stares at the text message and replies before he can think about it for too long: "Come for dinner Saturday. If you bring your camera, maybe you'll get a chance."

His phone beeps at him almost immediately; Clint asking what time. Phil can't even type as fast as Clint must have to get back to him so quickly. It makes him smile, and then he feels rather silly, smiling at his phone stupidly. 

"7pm?"

He puts the phone away after that, something warm and excited fluttering in his chest. He's not sure if it's nerves or something more. 

Phil's probably not kidding anyone.

* * *

On Saturday, he has a minor freak-out over what to wear and what to cook, and why did he think this was a good idea, is he really inviting a student to his place for dinner and maybe more because, really, it's not like he and Clint will be able to keep their hands off one another, does he really want this, does he?

Darcy almost trips him where he's pacing in front of his wardrobe and he stops to take a deep breath. This is ridiculous; he's fought in wars and faced uninterested students in classes and lectures. He's always been calm, this shouldn't shake him as much as it does.

He's behaving like a lovesick teenager who's never been out on a date. It's not a flattering comparison, and he forces himself to stand a little straighter, shoulders pushing back and chin coming up, his breathing evening out a little more. He may take the situation more seriously than is actually warranted, he may expect too much too soon, but he hasn't invited anyone to his place for a date, much less one where he's actually cared this much about the outcome and the other person, in a long time. Too long, perhaps, but he can‘t regret it.

In the end, he settles on a pair of dark jeans and one of his favourite dress shirts: less formal than the suits he usually wears these days, a different kind of uniform with no military insignia, but a uniform nevertheless, yet still well within his comfort zone. He tells himself, firmly, that there is no reason to doubt his original plan of cooking pasta alfredo and that he doesn't have time to get groceries for anything else, even if he wanted to. 

It'll work out.

* * *

Phil enjoys cooking. He's always liked good food, but after the military - and if he never sees another MRE, it will still be too soon - he found that he likes the process of making it almost as much as eating it. It is, for lack of a better term, domestic, and he may be a single man in his forties living alone with a cat, but domestic is something he strives for. It's warm and comfortable and it may not be exciting, exactly, but he still finds himself hoping that it's something that Clint might look for as well, something that Clint might enjoy. 

If Phil is being honest with himself, he doesn't want to be single any longer, and he wants to be with Clint. The second part is, admittedly, far more important than the first, since Phil's never believed in finding a partner just to stave off the loneliness. 

"I'm old-fashioned," he tells Darcy as he's setting the table. The sauce is done and the pasta needs to be drained in two minutes. It's five to seven. 

He manages to get the food on the table, just barely, before the doorbell rings. Darcy hisses and runs off, but Phil finds himself smiling, the curl of almost pleasant nervousness that he's been carrying around for a while now intensifying. 

He opens the door, smile still in place. Clint's expression is an interesting combination of his jaw dropping and a grin wide enough that 'splitting his face' seems accurate. It isn't necessarily pretty, but Phil finds himself charmed regardless.

"You look good," Clint says after a moment that lasts just too long to be smooth, clearly trying to get his expression under control again. It's gratifying, though Phil has the same problem, he's just more used to controlling himself and keeping a straight face. Still, Clint looks great in a purple shirt that stretches over his chest and arms when he moves without seeming like it's a number too small. 

"You, too," Phil finally replies, stepping back to let Clint in.

* * *

Dinner is surprisingly easy. Phil’s proud of himself for not burning anything. They don’t touch the wine that Phil put in the fridge, instead opting for beer which Clint confides he prefers even though “wine just seems more sophisticated, but that’s just not really my style. You, now, you I could see with a glass of something fancy and old and all that talk about aftertaste and how it goes down and stuff.”

Phil snorts. He does like wine, but not that much.

* * *

Clint leans in, his arm slipping from the back of the couch to Phil's shoulders. It isn't smooth, exactly, but Phil likes how predictable it was, how Clint's intentions were clearly telegraphed. He tips his head forward minutely when Clint's fingers find skin just above the collar of Phil's shirt, thumb brushing slow circles over the hairline and Phil's skin. He can barely suppress a shiver.

Phil thinks that maybe he should feel bad for making Clint take the first step yet again, but his hand is on Clint's leg and it feels far too good to be the focus of Clint's intense gaze to feel bad about it at all. The way Clint looks at him-- it sounds cliché even in Phil's head, but it makes him feel wanted, special. 

Clint's fingers tighten over Phil's neck, briefly, soft pressure drawing him in. He could resist if he wanted to, it's more a request than a demand, but he moves closer obligingly, heart beating faster. They've kissed before, but here, in his apartment after dinner and with the evening stretched out before them and nowhere to be until Monday morning, it feels different, more somehow. The build-up is as much part of what leaves Phil a little breathless even before their lips meet as is the memory of Clint's lips against his before, the mental images of what might yet happen.

The kiss, when it comes, starts out slow, a languid slide of lips against lips. It's a little dry at first, but Clint draws back for a moment, licking his lips and Phil absolutely did not follow his lips in an instinctive motion, wanting more-- except he did, and then Clint's chuckling against his lips and they're kissing again and again, Clint's lower lip between Phil's in one moment and in the next there's teeth scraping over his, Clint's tongue soothing the spot that his teeth just worried and it's not perfect, but it's good and Phil wants more.

He makes a soft sound at the back of his throat, hand sliding up Clint's leg just a little, fingers pressing into the inseam of Clint's jeans and just like that, the kiss goes from slow to dirty, hard. Clint's fingers curl in his shirt, pulling him even closer and they shift until it fits, until they're pressed against each other on the couch, almost chest to chest. After that, Phil loses himself in the heat and intensity of it, in the drag of lips against lips and tongues sliding together, the hint of teeth and the hands that moved from his chest to his back, running up and down and finally pulling his shirt out of his trousers until Clint finds skin again. 

Phil isn't sure for how long they kiss like that, sitting on his couch. It isn't until Clint stops, clearly reluctant to move away even though they aren't kissing anymore for the moment, that he becomes aware of how painfully hard he is, of how hard they're both breathing. He can feel each of Clint's breaths against his cheek, brushing over his lips almost like a caress. It's strangely intimate, and this time he doesn't hide the shiver that runs through him. 

Clint looks gorgeous, lips spit-slick and red, eyes blown, and Phil wants to keep this, keep the image of Clint like this and the way it feels, the arousal humming through him and the knowledge that he's doing this with someone he really likes, someone he could see himself falling in love over and over again; someone he'd like to stay with. It's that knowledge that makes him move his hand, holding Clint's gaze as he lifts it higher, tentatively running a finger over the length of Clint's arousal. 

Clint groans, long and drawn-out, and the sound shoots straight to Phil's cock as well, twitching in the constraints of his trousers. "Please tell me I'm not going too far," Clint murmurs against Phil's lips, still not having moved away, and then he's pushing until Phil's back hits the couch, until he's lying back and Clint can settle between his legs and over him. 

Phil moans at the weight of him, hips bucking up and against Clint. It takes some effort after that to open his eyes again, to find Clint's gaze. Forming words takes a moment, requiring more brain cells than he currently has at his disposal. "Not going too far." 

Clint's smile makes the effort well worth it. 

He leans in again, some of the desperation curbed by the brief interlude, but although the kiss is slower now, it is no less intense for it, and when Clint rolls his hips, the last of Phil's calm dissipates, hands coming up to Clint's back, tugging at his shirt until Clint huffs out another laugh and sits up to unbutton it, effectively straddling Phil's hips. It gets another moan out of him. Phil tries to help with the shirt, fingers catching over the buttons and their hands meeting in the middle. It should be awkward, but Clint's still grinning widely and Phil, Phil just feels _happy_ and it's new and exciting and he wants Clint so bad, but he loves this, how easy it is even if it isn't perfect or smooth. 

Clint's shirt lands over the back of the couch and Phil's already dragging him down again, hands running over the smooth expanse of skin that is Clint's back, exploring the shift of muscles under his fingertips. He'd known Clint was good-looking, Clint's arms caught his eye even that first night, but this is so much better. He wants to say as much, wanting to tell Clint how gorgeous he is, but he swallows the words in favour of kissing Clint instead, long and deep. Maybe it'll convey at least part of what he feels, what he can't even begin to put in words.

* * *

They stop kissing to turn on a light and Phil's amazed by how dark it's got, by how quickly the time has passed when they've done nothing but kiss; it seems for hours. There's dishes in his sink and the remainder of the chocolate mousse he bought for dessert still on the table, both their shirts hanging off the couch, and he can't bring himself to care, regardless of how much he likes things neat and tidy usually, not under Clint's still intent gaze.

"I want--" Clint's voice sounds wrecked, dark and rough, and Phil's breath catches in his throat when Clint slides down the edge of the couch, narrowly missing the couch table, and kneels before Phil, hands on his knees and eyes dark from where he's looking up at Phil. 

Clint leans in and Phil finds himself nodding, breathless and hard and _wanting_. Clint's hands are at the buttons of his jeans and Phil moans, as much because Clint's thumb is rubbing over the head of his cock as because he's already imagining what it might feel like, Clint's mouth around him.

His imagination doesn't compare to the reality of Clint's lips closing around him a moment later, once he's pushed Phil's jeans and boxers out of the way and down to pool around his ankles. It's all wet heat and gentle pressure to start with and Phil's fingers curl into the material of his couch to keep himself from reaching for Clint, from tangling them in Clint's hair instead and pulling him closer. 

Clint presses his tongue to the bundle of nerves at the underside of Phil's cock and it's a miracle he doesn't come right then and there, moaning and glad for the hands now on his hips that help keep him still. He really wants for this to go on. Clint hums, mouth stretching into what might normally be a smile and Phil smiles back, instinctively, though a moment later Clint starts sucking and Phil lets his head fall back against the edge of the couch. The image of Clint, eyes closed and cheeks hollowing out, though, that stays, burnt into his mind. It isn't an image he wants to push away, not at all, but he doesn't think he could even if he wanted to, not with the way he can feel what Clint is doing. Heat is spreading through his body, his cock twitching and filling out even more with each press of Clint's tongue against him, with each time that Clint goes a little lower, lips closed tight and moving over him. 

Phil doesn't try to rein in the sounds threatening to spill over, moans and gasps and the rough edge to his breathing, each time Clint changes the pressure or the angle, until he settles into an even rhythm. His hands move from Phil's hips, one wrapping around Phil's cock and moving in turn with Clint's mouth, and Phil can only imagine where the other one is going by the moan muffled against his skin. 

He doesn't know how long it goes on, Clint's lips and mouth robbing him of all sense of time, but he feels himself getting closer, stomach clenching and toes curling into his carpet. "Clint--" 

Clint stops. Phil doesn't move for a moment, trying to catch his breath and to get on with the programme, but his brain is still stuck in a loop of heat and wet tightness and desire and _oh god so close_ and it takes him a while to come down from that. Clint doesn't give him that much time. Before Phil's realised what is going on, exactly, Clint's pushing him back, moving up to straddle him again, their cocks aligning and then he's wrapping his hand around them both and Phil groans again, this time not even trying to keep his hips still, to stop from bucking into Clint's hold. 

Clint sets a fast pace, and Phil joins in, their fingers tangling together over their cocks, tight, the skin of Phil's wet with spit and pre-come, making the slide easier. The sound of skin against skin and their heavy breathing is the only sound in the room; Phil reaches up, his free hand curling over the back of Clint's neck to drag him down into a kiss, straining up to meet him. It's awkward and slanted, more breathing the same air and into each other's mouths than an actual kiss, both of them far too distracted to focus properly. It's still good and it ends far too soon with Phil arching off the couch, turning his head into Clint's shoulder as he comes. 

There's hardly a catch in the rhythm, Clint keeps going until Phil stops moving under him, against him and with him, too sensitive to keep going. He lets Phil's cock slide from his grip, but he's still breathing open-mouthed and heavy, muscles in his arms tight and bunching with tension, and Phil wants to kiss him and make him come and keep him just like this, aroused and on edge forever, because it's a fucking gorgeous image. That would be unfair, though, and instead Phil slides a hand through his own come, spattered over his chest, gathering some before he wraps his hand around Clint again who lets his own hand fall away, holding himself up against the back of the couch as Phil starts moving again, settling into a rhythym that's just this side of punishing and makes Clint gasp and push into the circle of his fingers. 

Phil almost wishes he hadn't come yet, that there wasn't satisfied laziness spreading through his limbs, because Clint like this is possibly the hottest thing that he's ever seen and he wants to enjoy it without the haze that's settled over him with his own orgasm. 

Clint's breath grows shorter, gasps more than anything, his muscles are clenching, trembling, and that's the only indication before he freezes, coming hot over Phil's hand and chest. 

Afterwards, he collapses on Phil. They kiss again, lazily and almost chastely, barely more than a press of lips against lips and it's surprisingly sweet considering what they just did, that Phil has come cooling on his chest. He feels debauched and wrecked and can't bring himself to mind at all, not with Clint's weight warm and reassuring over him.

"We should take a shower," he finally mutters. Clint laughs against his lips. "Yeah." 

Neither of them move.

* * *

Phil closes the door to the office behind him slowly. 

"Nick?"

Nick Fury's sitting in his black leather chair behind the heavy desk. The opinion amongst the students vary as to whether Fury looks badass or creepy with the eyepatch and in his coat, but Phil's served with Nick and he doesn't bother much with the opinions of others. He's been friends with Nick long before he became Phil's boss and right now, he needs the opinion of both his friend and his superior. 

"Sit down, Coulson." Nick's voice is gruff, but Phil has long stopped letting that bother him. "What's on your mind?"

Phil takes his time settling in the chair opposite of Nick's, takes a moment to gather his thoughts. He's tried coming up with some line to ease into this, something to accurately describe his situation without making it sound better or worse than it is, without making it _cheesy_ , because he really likes Clint and he still can't think of Saturday night without the urge to grin stupidly, without his stomach making weird flips. He still can't think of anything. 

"I'm dating a student."

Nick leans back, stapling his hands together. "One of yours?"

"Of course not." Phil shakes his head. "But he's still a student and I'm still a professor."

It's always a little disconcerting, being the sole focus of Nick Fury's single-eyed stare, but Phil doesn't shift in his seat and doesn't fidget, keeping his shoulders back and his face blank. He should be used to it, he's been on the receiving end of it often enough when they've discussed school policy or the latest political developments. 

"Phil," Nick starts, very slowly, "You're the last person who would ever use their power to coerce anyone. The fact that you're worried about this only goes to show that you're not abusing your power. I bet Clint Barton had to push to get you to date him at all, so don't be an idiot and just answer me this: Are you happy?"

Phil's long stopped wondering how Nick knows the things he knows. He probably has a network of spies within the university, just gathering information. If there's one thing Nick's adept at, it's staying on top of any and all happenings within his university. 

He smiles. "Yes. I think so. He's-- he's amazing."

Nick rolls his eyes. "Then get out of my office and stop being stupid."

"Yessir."

* * *

It's reassuring to know that his longest standing friend still thinks he's an idiot.

* * *

Phil has lunch with Clint on Wednesday, they meet in a place near the arts faculty. There's a group of people that Clint clearly knows well and Phil doesn't at all at one table, but Clint only gives them a wave and a grin before taking Phil's hand and tugging him further into the restaurant, towards the back of it. 

"They make the best pie here, you should have one for dessert. We never finished the chocolate mousse after all."

They sit down and Phil knows he's too quiet, but he still can't quite shake the thought about their relationship. Maybe he's taking it all too seriously, he's definitely thinking about it too much, but that Clint's a student and he's a professor and he's pretty sure he's falling in love with Clint, and they had sex on Saturday, very good sex.

Maybe they're moving too fast?

"Everything okay?" Clint asks, face growing more serious. Phil fights the urge to smooth out the frown lines with his fingers, or to trace them with his tongue. It's distracting how much he wants to do with Clint, to Clint. Instead, he reaches out, tangling their fingers together over the table. 

"I just--" he takes a deep breath. "I just want you to be sure. That this is what you want." What he means is: That I'm not influencing you in some way, that you're aware that dating a professor might mean there'll be talk, that you want someone who's older than you and bound to this university which you might leave, that you want a law professor who's fought wars and hasn't come out unscathed, who's more interested in reading up on legal journals and watching bad reality TV than parties, someone who isn't exciting at all. What he means is: Are you sure you want this, with me.

Clint's fingers tighten around Phil's, squeezing for a brief moment and then holding on. The frown is disappearing, replaced by an expression that is more thoughtful, though no less intense for it. The longer Phil looks at it, the more it seems a little angry as well, though Clint's doing a good job at hiding it. 

"Stop giving me outs, Phil. I want this. I want you. I wouldn't have kissed you at the party if it bothered me that you're a professor and I wouldn't have come for the first or second or third date if I didn't like you. You're not forcing me into anything, I don't know how you got that idea in your head. Just because I'm a student and you're a professor." 

He lowers his voice, the tension bleeding from his shoulders and thumb rubbing circles into the back of Phil's hand. "I don't know if it'll work out, Phil. I dont know if we'll be together in a year or ten. Hell, we've only been on three dates. But you don't have to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, y'know, I can make my own choices and one of those is that I want to date you. Will you let me?" There's a hint of a challenge to his last words, in the stubborn tilt of his chin. 

Maybe Phil really is an idiot. The argument that he's taking Clint's choice by assuming that there is some element of coercion, of power play due to their respective positions, that he's disregarding even the possibility for Clint to have a choice, that makes more sense than anything that's been going on in his head for the last few days, and it isn't what he wants to do, it isn't how he wants things between them to be. He squeezes Clint's hand back. "Yeah. --I'm sorry." 

Clint shrugs, smiling, and just like that the rest of the tension dissipates as well. "All right. Just don't make me be the emotionally mature one in this relationship all the time, because I don't think I'd do well."

Phil laughs, and if it comes out a little self-deprecating and embarassed, that is only fitting and he doesn't mind if Clint sees it. "I'll try. No promises, though."

* * *

The remainder of their lunch together is considerably more light-hearted; Phil tells stories about Darcy's antics and Clint draws a few parallels to the kids that he teaches archery to. From there, they get to Phil's students and the ones in Clint's classes, to the prank Clint, James Barnes and Thor Odinson - the tall guy Jane Foster was talking to at Stark's party, apparently, the world is small and a university campus even smaller - pulled on one teacher for the first of April, and somehow, to the education systems in other countries and the changes Clint would implement if he were prime minister. In between, at one point, Clint opens his mouth to answer one of Phil's question and then stops, just looking at Phil who licks his lips, wondering if he has food in his face. 

But no: "God, I want to kiss you right now" is all Clint says before they continue talking.

Phil goes back to his office and his afternoon lecture with a smile on his face.

* * *

Natasha places the folder on Phil's desk and doesn't leave, so he looks up from the paper he was reading and raises an eyebrow. For a person as small as she is, Natasha can certainly take up a lot of space when she sets her mind to it, and right now, with her arms crossed in front of her chest and one high-heeled foot tapping on the floor, she looks more imposing than her stature warrants.

Phil knows how important body language can be, how much of an effect it can have. He's used it to his favour a few times, himself, but Natasha is an expect at manipulating the way she appears to play with people's perceptions of her and consequently, their expectations. Phil doesn't think she's playing at anything right now.

"If you hurt him, or if you ever make him feel unwanted, then I promise you, they will not find your body."

That said, she marches out of his office.

At first, Phil is stunned, but after a moment, he finds himself glad that Clint is friends with her, that he has someone like Natasha looking out for him and so obviously caring for him. 

He's a little less amused that his student assistant is threatening him, but under the circumstances, he thinks he can forgive it.

* * *

They have dinner together at Phil's place again on Friday and Clint brings his camera and takes pictures of Darcy that he says he'll develop for Phil. They end up kissing on the couch again for an hour, but eventually, Phil makes an executive decision. "C'mon," he mutters, drawing back and getting up, holding a hand out for Clint. "Let's go to bed?" 

It comes out as more of a question than he meant to. Clint looks up, taking his hand but not yet getting up, and for a moment there's an expression that can only be described as vulnerable crossing his features, before it's replaced by a grin. "Yeah."

Phil thinks of Natasha's words, _if you ever make him feel unwanted_ , and he thinks of every moment when he asked Clint if he was sure that could have been interpreted as Phil not being sure and he wants to kick himself. "C'mere." He pulls Clint up and against him, fingers tangling in the short hair at the nape of Clint's neck, licking his way into Clint's mouth, slow and sure and steady, trying to convey how much he wants this and how much he wants for Clint to want this, too. That, more than anything, has always been his concern and he hopes, now, that it never made Clint feel like he wasn't wanted, wasn't appreciated. 

"You know," he mutters, walking backwards towards the bedroom and pulling Clint along, letting little to no space come between them. "The first time, at the party, I was sure you'd get bored of me within five minutes, if not less."

Clint laughs at that, kicking the bedroom door shut behind them. "With all due respect, Phil, for a professor, you're kind of an idiot sometimes."

Phil grins back at him, back of his knees hitting the bed, and he lets himself fall, still holding on to Clint. They tumble down on the bed in a tangle of limbs and laughter. Phil waits until the latter's died down to kiss Clint again, one arm wrapped around him, one hand cradling Clint's jaw. "I know," he whispers against Clint's lips, and kisses him again. "I know."

* * *

The next time Phil finds an invitation for one of Tony Stark's parties, more than two months after the first one, he doesn't try to find an excuse not to go. Instead, he texts Clint to ask whether he's already heard and whether he wants to go.

Phil still doesn't like parties very much, but seeing how he got to know Clint at Stark's party and seeing how they've been dating ever since, seeing each other at least once a week if not far more often, with Clint having stayed over more than once, it seems like a thing they could do, together. 

Clint enjoys being social far more than Phil does, seeks out company where Phil is happy to spend a quiet evening, but it isn't as though Phil hates it. In fact, he can admit that he ended up rather enjoying Stark's last party, and Nick is right when he says that Phil needs - or needed, more accurately - to get out more. 

Clint texts back, "It's a date."

This time, Phil isn't so apprehensive about the party. Having someone to go with makes all the difference, apparently, and he should resent that because he is fine on his own, he always has been and he refuses to let that change, but the fact remains that he wants Clint with him, he wants to be around Clint and he wants to go to Tony Stark's party with him.

Maybe it's time he stopped questioning himself so much and just enjoyed this.

* * *

After the party, they go back to Phil's place, too tired and tipsy to do much besides fall into bed and curl around one another, trading a few lazy kisses before drifting off to sleep.

The next morning, Phil wakes up with a full bladder and a pleasant lack of headache and disentangles himself from Clint's limbs. He brushes his teeth and makes coffee before wandering back into the bedroom to see whether Clint's woken up yet. Usually, he's a fairly light sleeper.

Phil stops in the doorway, smiling at the image he's presented with. After a moment, he goes back, as silently as possible, to find Clint's camera, glad that he carries it with him almost everywhere. It takes him a moment to turn it on and set it to automatic, not trusting himself with the amount of buttons and settings and possibilities it presents, before tiptoeing back to the bedroom.

Darcy lifts her head at the sound of the camera focussing, but doesn't move away from where she's curled up in the nook of Clint's arm, under his shoulder. Clint is lying on his side, still asleep, his expression open and content. Phil thinks it's one of the most beautiful images he's ever seen, his boyfriend and his cat lying in his bed.

Maybe they won't work out in the long run, he can't know. There's no guarantees and he may take things too serious sometimes. He has his hold-ups, scars both mental and physical from the war, a ridiculous amount of love for international law, he's an introvert and prefers an evening in to large crowds by far. He's boring and calm and sometimes too quiet, nothing special at all. He's also steadfast and dependable and if Clint sees something in him, sees someone he wants to be with in Phil Coulson, then who is he to say no to that. He'd be stupid to.

Maybe they won't work out. Looking at Clint and the corresponding image on the camera display, Phil thinks that they'll be just fine.

* * *

Clint frames the picture and gives it to Phil as a present for their first anniversary.


End file.
